Mirror Image
by Tortured Soul
Summary: There would be no now without the past, and what he consisted of was layers of the past, the present, and the future.


If Harry were to look into the Mirror of Esired, he had a feeling that he would see himself just as he were now: middle-aged, his jet-black hair fighting off those silver strands that had managed to weed their way into his formidable tresses, his eyebrows growing bushy over the tops of his well-worn glasses, and that scar, ever so faint, pink against the stark white of his skin, just beginning to wrinkle, especially around the corners of his mouth and eyes. He would see a father and a husband, not the hero he once was, or the poor little orphaned boy, taken in by an unwilling aunt and uncle.

And he would be content with that image, but the truth was, that particular Mirror told lies. There would be no now without the past, and what he consisted of was layers of the past, the present, and the future.

If he strained his eyes, he could look passed what he had become and see the confused youth that had begun him. Thrust into an unloving home with an insufferable aunt and uncle that glowered at him each time he came into view; there were no faint and knowing smiles shared between two doting parents, but rather regretful grimaces and frowns that made an outcast of Harry. He had often thought there was something dreadfully wrong with him - some terrible secret that the Dursleys kept from him, as if knowing it would unleash even more of a monster.

They tucked him away in a cupboard beneath the stairs, and it was in that tiny broomcloset of a room that he would find some solace.

He had a vivid imagination, and he would often pretend to be a member of a loving family, where there were warm hugs and kind words whispered into his forehead, always punctuated by a kiss. He would be tucked into a bed, read a story, and just before the lights flickered off, he would hear an "I love you". He dreamt of being important and of being normal.

The letters that came by owl only confirmed what Harry had hoped were not true - that he was indeed different; but there had been a positive connotation in Hagrid's voice as he proclaimed him a wizard, and Harry, now beaming with eager new hope, thought that maybe, just maybe, he could find a place where he belonged.

He never thought that he could make friends, too.

Hogwarts was the beginning of a new layer. No longer suppressed by Vernon and Petunia, he could feel himself grow more confident and brave and even loved - just like the boys from the fantasies forged in the dark of his room beneath the stairs, where heavy footsteps tore him from his comfort world. He felt well adjusted, but he also felt a calling, a certain urgent need to discover the truth about the whispered He Who Must Not Be Named, to his own origins. He knew now that there had once been parents who had cared for him, so much that they had sacrificed themselves for him, and he knew that he was legend in the wizarding world, though he did not feel entitled so much as he felt truly lucky, despite all the misfortune that followed him in his years at Hogwarts.

Harry felt the next layer to him, perhaps the most important, the very core to who he was and who he would be, was "the Chosen One". It had been his quest to figure out the puzzle that was Voldemort, to demolish him, that had created the fine threads that strung him and his friends together so tightly.

But looking in the mirror now, what Harry saw was the very thing that made him the happiest. Despite all his fame and all his heroic deeds, nothing exceeded the feeling of being a father - to nurture three wonderful children and give them what he had never had, and to do so besides one of the most beautiful women he would ever come to know, a woman that he had shared his fears and his heart with, his soul even. There was little left to give to her, but both he and Ginny knew that if she were to ask, he would gladly hand over the last few secrets that he kept hidden, however dark or painful they were.

Because there was pain - so much pain, immense and bountiful. The wounds, however old they were, still bled and wept; there were pieces of him that had not healed properly, were misaligned in his heart, and he felt that they would never be put right. He had gained more than lightning bolt scars throughout his life, and most of them were invisible. He felt responsible and guilty - a sickening combination that oftentimes woke him in the middle of the night, a cold sweat slick across his forehead, panting and crying, the tears streaming down his face unashamedly. It would always be there, that much he knew.

The future would always be a comfort to him - his children growing up and finding husbands and wives, having their own children, and living fulfilling lives; going completely gray with Ginny, whom he knew would remain lovely, steady, a constant in his life until they were both buried in the soft earth, and then in the after that would follow.

He imagined his grave-marker, a solemn gray column that read Harry Potter, and then underneath, instead of his famed moniker "the Boy Who Lived", it would read "Loving Friend, Husband, and Father", and it was in this that he found his greatest comfort - to let his love define him, to become him, and to always live on.

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><p>God I have not written fanfiction in a LOOOOONG time, and never for Harry Potter. I was wholly surprised when this spawned in my head, and as I'm currently suffering through a terrible bout of writer's block, I was all too happy to oblige to my nagging thoughts.<p> 


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